


young blood, came to start a riot

by thatsparrow



Series: beau week 2019 [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 14:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18573496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: Behind the bar, Beau thinks she catches the shine of silver trading hands. She must be getting good odds on this; the goliath is twice her size.--written for day two of beau week: brawl





	young blood, came to start a riot

**Author's Note:**

> title (again) from "raise hell" by dorothy (because it's a very beau song and because I like having a theme)

"Hey, dickface—you lose a fight with an ettin or just get fucked by one?"

"The hell did you just say to me?"

"Wait, no—shit. Hang on, hang on. You lose a fight with an ettin or did _your mom_ get fucked by one. Or—I guess she could've been the one doing the fucking, right? Is your dad an ettin, is what I'm trying to get at, because you're ugly as _shit_ —"

She doesn't duck past the goliath's swing so much as reel under it, letting herself fold back at the waist as his knuckles bruise the air above her nose. Doesn't realize her sense of balance must've drowned sometime during her fifth drink until she ends up on her back on the tavern floor, blinking up at the ceiling as the lights blur and flicker above her like starbursts, the shifting flares of a sun sucked into a maelstrom. Fuck, that's embarrassing. She'd have been put to work in the kitchens for two weeks if the monks had seen her form on that—

Beau pulls her elbows in tight and rolls to the left just as the front legs of a chair come down on the space where her shoulders had been not so long ago, the wood splintering on impact before the rest of the thing comes apart in the goliath's hands. Great fucking _fuck_ , her head is spinning. Her stomach, too, and this is what she should've expected after having downed that sludge-brown glass of gods-know-what. Something the barkeep would only call "The Emperor's Tribute" that had kicked like a horse and gone down as easy as a mouthful of splinters. The feel of it had lingered on her tongue as much as the taste had, sitting slick in her throat like they'd mixed moonshine and oil. The tang of rotted fruit, the weight of sulfur; fuck, she's gonna be _sick_ —  

The goliath grabs her by the collar as she's pulling herself to her hands and knees, knuckles digging like carved stone into the back of her neck as he hauls her off the ground.

"This is my favorite fucking shirt, asshole," Beau says as the fabric goes taut around his fingers, pulled tight against her throat. "You rip it, and I swear to Bahamut—"

And then she's airborne, not quite flying but close as she's ever likely to come. The monks had tattooed these drills deep enough into her muscles that her body can react without her thinking about it, can shift to catch her weight and let herself roll through the fall—a move she would've executed with model grace were it not for the great fucking _table_ in her way. Given all the solid, bone-breaking edges there were to land on, Beau hits the ground with no more than a handful of bruised ribs, which is pretty impressive, when you think about it.

Then again, she might've cracked something in her skull with how fast the room is spinning, the way it used to after her childhood self had finished tumbling log-like to the bottom of some grassy slope. Why had she _ever_ thought that was a good idea? Gods, she'd give anything to quiet the sixth?—seventh?—drink that's talking loud in her throat, nausea swimming up to the base of her tongue. _The Emperor's Tribute_. Get fucked.

Beau swims her hand through the air around her until it bumps up against one of the tavern walls, some stretch of wood that's firm and steady enough for her to pull herself upright, to lean against as she tries to find her breath instead of the taste of bile. As she looks around, she sees most of the patrons have moved out of the way, clearing a rough oval of shoved-aside tables and upended chairs in the middle of the floor. Behind the bar, Beau thinks she catches the shine of silver trading hands. She must be getting good odds on this; the goliath is twice her size.

"Fucking had enough yet" The goliath calls at her, looking around the room like it's filled with an audience instead of two-dozen other piss-drunk assholes. "Wanna try your luck with a few more of those funny fucking quips? Huh? Who the _fuck's_ got ettin blood now?"

No, she's not done; she hasn't even landed a hit yet. "I mean, ettins are some big motherfuckers, so—still you?" As the goliath's face twists into something furious, sausage-sized fingers closed into a bruised-knuckle fist, Beau would swear she hears someone in the room call over in her direction: _Man, learn when to stay down_. The monks used to tell her something similar. _It's not a shame to lose, Beauregard_.

 _Good_ , she'd say, blood clotting sticky over her eye or leaking from her nose to bead against her lower lip. _Then you won't feel so bad when I finish kicking your ass_.

When the goliath comes at her again, Beau holds steady until she can count the scars across his knuckles before she shifts out of the way, ducking low as he splits his skin against the hardwood.

" _Fuck_ —"

She can see his hand shaking from the pain as she drives a couple quick hits into his side—knee-buckling ones, too, sure to bruise something internal. Except punching him feels about as effective as if she'd thrown her own fist into the wall, muscle wrapped like a steel breastplate around his ribs. Shit. _Shit_. Okay—that's fine. She'd decided not to square up against a punching bag because there would've been no challenge to it. And, even several leagues from sober, Beau's willing to throw down whatever gold she's got that the goliath isn't taking it easy on her.

She moves right as his fist comes back around, but she's not fast enough to sidestep the noose-tight grip of his hand that closes around her throat, holds her up like she's a kitten caught by the scruff of the neck; somehow, she doesn't imagine she'll be treated so kind.

"You stupid motherfucker," the goliath says to her, lifting her up until she's eye-level with him.

"Funny," Beau says, voice a little choked from trying to talk around the goliath's hand. "My dad used to call me that, too."

And then the goliath is bringing her down like a hammer, driving the back of her skull against the tabletop, and Beau stops feeling much of anything at all.

 

—

 

Beau wakes up with the sun bright in her eyes, and it says something about the beating she'd taken that she doesn't know if it's the next morning or if she's slept clear through to the day after. Either way, there are certainly worse ways she could've woken up—passed out in the tavern's alley, for one, instead of tucked under a blanket and bandaged up nice with strips of white cotton. Thick layers of the stuff wrapped around her knuckles, her ribs, some stretch of dull ache at the back of her head— _oh._ Right. The goliath going bowling with her skull.

She tries to shift onto her elbows, but as soon as she moves more than a couple inches, she feels her head start to spin, the sour taste of bile kicked up in her throat. Even so, it's enough for her to look around the room, to see it's simple in both layout and design: a shuttered window halfway up the wall, a wood-frame cot shoved into the corner, an unadorned trunk at the base of it. Someone left her shoes tidied up on the floor next to her, which is a sweet if unnecessary gesture; she never took as much care of her things when she was living here.

"If you're looking to get yourself killed, I'm sure there are easier ways of doing so." Zeenoth is standing just inside the door frame, though maybe 'hovering' is a better word for it. Gods only know how long he's been waiting there. "Likely less painful ones, too."

"Do you work at being that dramatic or does it just come natural?" Beau falls back against the pillow—a little theatric herself, if she's being honest. "I didn't die, did I? Look at me. I'm fine."

"Mhm. The very picture of health."

Beau lays there for a moment, listening, but she doesn't hear the sound of Zeenoth moving off down the hallway. No, of course not—he fucking would keep standing there, quiet save for that same steady breathing.

"You all didn't have to bring me back here, you know," she says after a beat. Somehow, Zeenoth's silence is worse than the phantom taste of bile on her tongue. "I left, remember? Whatever obligation my dad paid you for, it's done."

"Would you rather we'd left you in the street?"

"Kind of, yeah."

Zeenoth exhales, arguably louder than he needs to; more than one of their conversations had started that same way. _Do you enjoy being challenging, Beauregard? Is that why you're so willfully difficult?_

_Who says it's willful? Maybe I'm just that stupid._

_No. We both know you're not_.

"When you decide to go, the remainder of your things are at the foot of your bed," Zeenoth says. "And if you choose to repeat this particular exercise, perhaps consider choosing a tavern closer to the Archives." There's a weight to the silence that follows, like Zeenoth is holding himself back from either entering the room further or walking away, a sculpture of someone in movement. "Not that it's of any particular importance, but in point of fact, this was not done out of a sense of duty to your father. Should you be interested."  

He leaves before she has a chance to say, _I'm not_ , which is likely for the best; even for the skill she has at lying, the words would've rung hollower than the Archive halls. Still, it's not enough to convince her to change her mind. Just because they offered her this one act of pity doesn't mean they'll be so willing to put up with her once her father's money isn't coming in every month. No—better that she leave. For good, this time.

Or—just as soon as she can move more than a foot without feeling nauseous.

Beau looks up at the ceiling the way she used to while waiting to fall asleep. There had been a spiderweb strung into the corner above her bed, its owner brown and long-legged, but it's gone now; the monks must've dusted in her absence. The last time she was here, she had just come back after the evening meal to find the letter on her pillow, _Beauregard_ written out in the narrow, slanted penmanship of her father. He'd kept the news brief, his language surprisingly dispassionate—she'd had no intention of coming home before hearing from him, and this missive certainly wasn't an invitation.

 _Your mother and I have had another child—a son._ Whether deliberate or otherwise, her father hadn't referred to him as her brother. _It was unexpected, but certainly not unhoped for. The process took something of a toll on your mother, but I've been assured she will recover. All here is well._

The family portrait of wife and son he'd always wanted — of course all was well.

He never mentioned her brother's name, and Beau wonders if that was an intentional omission. This son they never had, always prayed for, now have.

 _Did you call him Beauregard, too_?


End file.
